


We will never have a future if we don't remember the past

by Canadaslighter



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: First time doing this, M/M, Wow, prucan, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canadaslighter/pseuds/Canadaslighter
Summary: "Our history is pretty messed up, compared to most couples, you know." "Our history is pretty good compared to most couples we know." In which we see the history of Prussia and Canada's relationship; the ups, the downs and the times when they just want to shoot each other.





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I finally got an account here XD Enjoy!

“Fucking hell Franny you got part of the Americas!” Gilbert stared down at the tiny boy, holding tightly onto the navy coat of his Papa, who was currently scowling at the man standing in his dining room.

“Language, mon ami. Mattieu don’t repeat what Gilbert just said, okay?” The child nodded, just staring up at the albino in a way that made him uncomfortable. That was the way the afternoon progressed, France making civil conversation while Mattieu watched silently. Gilbert shuffled awkwardly, trying to not meet the new nation’s eyes.

It was even worse when Francis left to fetch more wine, and milk for Mattieu. The kid wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t even move, as though he were terrified- that was it. He’d probably never seen an albino before. Gil remembered the times when his own people had beat him for just that fact, screaming words about demons. It was understandable.

While the older nation was wrapped in his own thoughts, Mattieu took a steadying breath, hands tightening into fists as he slowly took a step forward. One hand rested on the table cloth, the thin fabric a semblance of support. Red eyes focused on what he was doing but he kept moving until he was right in front of the man.

In the language he was still struggling to comprehend, he spoke.

“E-excuse me…you have a bird on your head.”

Gilbert blinked.

“Ja, I do. It’s Gilbert.”

“Can- can I pet him?” The child’s voice was so quiet, like a whisper, and his huge lilac eyes downcast.

The kid wasn’t afraid him. He was just too scared to ask to touch Gilbird. The tension in his body vanished, his posture relaxing as he took in the nervous child, and he couldn’t help but laugh in relief.

Mattieu jumped slightly, taking a step back but then the tiny yellow bird was presented to him. He smiled as he rubbed the bird, receiving a chirp in response.

And holy shit, did that child have a smile. It started slowly, but spread from ear to ear, rosebud lips opening to reveal small white teeth. My god, it was perfect, thought Gil as he took his turn to stare. He couldn’t help it, the boy was so innocent. His land hadn’t had the centuries of warfare that had ravaged Europe, he hadn’t had worry about starting an empire, and he was still just the land for his people. He had no scars. And he was going to stay that way, if Gilbert had his way.

He watched Gilbird fly up into the golden curls, gaining a laugh from Mattieu, as the boy looked up in wonder. Gil grinned, remembering when West was that carefree.

“He’s my best friend. He’s been with me for, fu-god knows how long.”

“How did you meet?” Mattieu’s voice was more confident, his body relaxed and playful. He was looking at Gilbert, the wonder now focused on the idea of a story. He hesitantly reached up to the older man.

Gilbert picked him up and settled him in his lap, starting to tell his stories. From the first meeting with Gilbird, to his wars and even to experiences with Hungary (slightly…edited of course). He kept talking until Francis came back, hands full with a tray of treats and eyes wide at the sight of his shy son in the lap of his friend.

“I see you two got on well, non?” His tone was slightly sharp, but that was to be understood. Colonies were precious commodities, but Prussia didn’t want to steal this boy away. He just wanted him to be happy. He locked eyes with his friend and shook his head slightly, a smile still on his face. The other man tilted his own head, biting his lip in slight worry yet he was happy. He knew Prussia would help him to protect his little Canada.

“Gil is interesting, Papa!” The high pitched voice broke the silent conversation as both males turned to the small child, with his perfect grin on his angelic face.

“He is, isn’t he, mon cher.”


	2. 2.

France was tired again. It was always like this these days; Francis would come back to his home, covered in blood and scratches, to a waiting Mattieu. The small boy would often be sitting in one of the plush sofas, tired eyes fluttering as he tried to stay awake, to make sure his Papa would come home.

But today Mattieu wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the red love seat, nor the sofa, only his bear curled up there. His heart skipped a beat, mind racing as he shook off the fatigue and ran, his hoarse voice shouting through their home.

“Mattieu!”

 

Mattieu was trying to find his way through the dense forest, the underbrush tangling in his feet. He had a mission to complete, and no matter how many times he fell over, how dark and scary it was, he had to finish it. He had to make sure Papa was safe. Papa hadn’t come home, even after he had spent hours standing by the door. Mattieu had steadied his nerves and walked out the door, into the night.

He would find his Papa, even if he had to enter the battlefield himself.

Which he really hoped he didn’t have to. It sounded scary.

 

Gilbert was pissed. Sweden had fucking invaded him, him the awesome Prussia! What gave him the right to even walk close enough to touch him? Who told him he could be within spitting distance of the Awesome Prussia?

He knew he was probably being narcissistic but he had a good reason. He hurt, his sides ached from the far too familiar feel of invasion but at least he’d held his ground, not like that prissy Austria. No matter how badly he got his assed kicked he would never be as lame as that. Not that he got his assed kicked. Far from it. He’d kick Sweden’s ass.

He never wanted to have to do that again.

He popped his neck, pulling the buttons on his coat together and watched his breath in the air. It was cold, far too cold. He hated winter, but at least there was no risk of burns. Just the ever present risk of losing your goddamn toes.

He’d left his camp, bored, and decided to take a walk. It was a stupid choice, he knew, but what else could you do when you were at war? It was just a mess of death and war etiquette.

There was rustle next to him. He tensed, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to defend himself from any Swedish, or French, stragglers.

Then he heard the scream of a child.

He ran.

 

Mattieu was terrified. The large wolf stared at him, growling. He felt his back against the back of the large tree behind him as he pushed into it, not moving his eyes. His wolves were not as scary as this! They were kind, they liked him! Kuma had always been with him before but now he was alone, and he was going to get eaten by a wolf before finding Papa and before having more of Papa’s crepes!

He couldn’t help the scream that tore out of his throat. The wolf started, but then lowered its body, preparing to pounce.

And that was when Gilbert came sprinting in front of him.

“Fucking hell Mattieu?!”

Mattieu wanted to cry in relief as the older nation turned to the wolf, brandishing his blade. It left with a growl, disappearing into the bushes. Its howl echoed through the forest as its footsteps faded into the night.

 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Gilbert knelt in front of the shaking boy, sword now sheathed, and grabbed his shoulders. He shook him roughly, ignoring the tears that fell from those beautiful eyes. Mattieu whimpered, his breathing shallow. Fuck he was having a panic attack.

The albino pulled the child into his arms, cradling his body close to his own, whispering soft words into his ear. He stroked hair that was too soft to seem real and left the blond cry into his shoulder. After a few minutes the sobbing subsided, leaving Gilbert with a suddenly rather angry child.

“Prussia!” Mattieu pushed him away, furiously rubbing his eyes with one hand and pointing at his saviour with the other.

“Yes? That’s my name…shit did you hit your head?! Oh fuck Franny’s gonna kill me if you got hurt on my watch! Fucking shit! How many fingers am I holding up?” He held up two fingers, biting his lip in worry as he stared into the red rimmed eyes of the small nation.

“I am fine! But, but you! You and, and Spain are attacking Papa! Why would you do that? I thought you were his friend?” He yelled, brow furrowing in anger. But then his voice grew quieter, almost to the same tone he had asked about Gilbert all those years ago. “I thought you were my friend.”

 

He was so young. Oh god. This boy, this child, thought he didn’t care. Oh god.

He didn’t understand how their world worked.

“Mattieu-Birdie, listen to me. It doesn’t matter what the situation is, I’m Francis’s friend. I’m your friend. I’m not France’s friend right now, and he is not Prussia’s. But I will do everything in my power to make sure Gilbert and Francis, and Gilbert and Mattieu remain friends. Do you understand?”

“Then why are you fighting?”

“Because- Oh god I don’t know! We have to! We can’t have peace in this shithole. This is Europe, Birdie. We’re always at each other’s throats. It’s how we survive.”

Birdie opened his mouth, but closed it again, looking down at the leafy ground. He shook his head quickly, long curls flying everywhere.

“It’s stupid! Europe’s stupid!”

Gilbert laughed, lifting the boy onto his shoulders. He looked up. It was still night, the clouds covering the moon. It was far too late for a colony to be out unaccompanied. That just posed questions.

“Ja, we’re all stupid,” he muttered, feeling icy fingers bury themselves into his scalp. Shit this kid was freezing. “Where’s your coat, Birdie?”

“…At home.”

The hesitation made Gil’s stomach drop.

“And why are you out here? Alone. Where’s France?”

That was the wrong thing to ask.

 

Mattieu dug his fingers into Gilbert’s head, gasping. He had forgotten to find Papa! He had to find Papa!

“I need to find Papa! Gil, I need to find Papa! Where’s Papa?”

“Owowowowow calm down! Fucking hell Birdie, calm down!” The man yelled, shaking his head to stop the sharp nails from causing an injury. This kid was stronger than he looked. “France left hours ago! He went ho- You snuck out.”

It wasn’t a question, Gilbert knew the answer already, and his conclusion was only supported by the little intake of breath he heard from above him.

“Oh fuck me, you’re gonna be the death of Francis. And me.”

 

France was slumped in his chair, the soft plush doing nothing to soothe him. His son was gone, his petit Mattieu was gone. He could be hurt. He could be cold. He could have been taken.

“Who?”

The small bear cub nudged his feet, dark eyes staring up at him. It made him want to cry. He rarely saw the bear without Mattieu and the sight just made his heart hurt even more. What if he had had enough of being France’s? What if he left of his own free will?

He put his head in his hands, feeling the tears rise in his eyes. He shouldn’t have gotten this attached, Mattieu- the boy, was just a simple colony. They could be replaced, he could easily get another one. But then why did the idea of another child running through his home without those lilac eyes hurt so much.

The bell on the door rang. He ignored it.

Where had he gone wrong? What had he done? Was it the war? He knew Mattieu hated seeing him hurt, but had he hated it so much he left? That didn’t sound like him…

The bell rang again. And again. And again.

“Not now!” His voice was hoarse. His legs ached. He had run around the whole of the house, and the woods outside, calling out for his son. There was no boy hiding behind the curtains, the trees nor under the bed. There was no boy anywhere, just a desperate man trying to hold onto his emotions.

“Fucking hell Franny open this goddamn door before I kick it down! Birdie is freezing his arse off here!”

What?

He swung the door open, taking in the image of Gilbert in his thick uniform and his son, on his shoulders, wrapped in a blanket.

“Papa!”

This child was going to be the death of him.


	3. 3

“Gilbert please! Please don’t let him do this!”

 

Mattieu clung to Francis’s side as the older nation gripped Gilbert’s shirt. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he looked up at the men, trying to figure out what was happening. England was standing by the door, arms crossed, staring at the situation in front of him.

 

It had only been a few minutes ago when Arthur had burst into Mattieu’s room, France running after him with Gilbert trailing behind. The English man had grabbed his arm, trying to pull him out of the room but had been stopped by a punch to the face from Francis.

 

“You keep your filthy paws off my son, you bastard!”

 

Then the current situation had developed. Francis was sobbing into the white shirt, as Gilbert looked to the floor, eyes closed, almost seeming to be crying himself. His hands were in fists, his lip red as he bit into it.

 

“I can’t do anything Francis. You know that,” he choked out, still avoiding eye contact.

 

“What’s going on?” Mattieu spoke for the first time, letting go of France and stepping forward. His voice was quiet, scared as he took in the scene before him. He’d never seen Francis like this, never in over 200 years he’d known him. Something had to be wrong. Maybe he’d done something wrong?

“Papa, did I do something wrong? I’m sorry!”

 

Gilbert winced at the sound. The kid’s voice had broken slightly, those eyes watering. He thought this whole mess was his fault. He didn’t even know what was happening.  

 

“Oh, Mattieu non! You never did anything wrong!”

 

“No, lad, it’s alright,” the British man spoke for the first time, his voice calm as he continued to watch. He moved from the door, walking closer to the trio as Francis tried to back away, pulling the child behind him.

 

“Don’t come near him, don’t come near him, don’t come fucking near him!” Francis growled, blue eyes narrowed as he protected his son. Arthur just rolled his eyes, reaching out for Mattieu, who shrunk further behind his father.

 

“Come on lad,” his calloused hand wrapped around Mattieu’s waist, yanking him into his arms. Francis cried, trying to hold onto the small child, who fought as hard as his tiny body could manage. It wasn’t enough though. Arthur ignored the protests from the pair, carrying on with his plans.

 

“Papa! Papa!”

 

England walked out of the room, a sobbing Canada pressed into his shoulder as France sunk to the floor.

 

Gilbert looked on, wanting to cover his ears to drown out the sound of his closest friends’ and the beautiful boy’s hearts breaking. He knew this was something he could never fix, even as he stumbled next to the man on the ground. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling his face to his neck.

 

“Franny, _Francis_ , I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry-“

 

The French man broke away, punching the albino.

 

“I will never forgive you for this, Prusse. Get out.”

 

“Fra-“

 

“Get out.”

 

And so he did, leaving the blond to cry his son’s room, holding tightly to the blanket from the bed.

 

 

 

“I want to go home.”

 

“We are going home, lad,” Arthur glanced at the small blond boy, taking in the red eyes and sore nose. "What is your name, anyway?”

 

The child sniffled before speaking, rubbing his eyes.

“Mattieu…”

 

“Mattieu? Matthew is better, a proper English name,” he sighed, opening his arms to the child. “Come here Matthew. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

 

Matthew looked up into the green eyes of this new man, and carefully moved closer. He received a smile, and gentle murmurs until he was in the warm embrace.

“We’re going to England, and you will meet your brother, Alfred. Did Francis tell you about Alfred, Matthew?” Arthur spoke quietly, trying not to scare the child any more than he already had. It had been a long day for them both, Matthew losing Francis and Arthur gaining a colony. The war had finally ended, and now they had to deal with the repercussions.

  
“No?”

 

“You’ll like him…” he spoke for most of the journey, telling Matthew what he had to expect. The child soon fell asleep, tucked under Arthur’s arm. He had whispered before he fell asleep, “I want Papa.”

 

“Bloody hell, he’ll never forgive me for this,” the Brits voice was hoarse as he stared up at the carriage ceiling.


	4. 4

The albino stood on his porch, rain soaking into his hair that fell flat on his face. It was late, Arthur had just been planning to go bed himself when a knock at the door had ruined those plans. It was then he’d found Gilbert at his doorway.

 

“To what do I owe the plea-“

 

“That was too harsh England.”

  
Arthur’s hand tightened on the door handle, thick brows furrowing as he glared at the man in front of him.

 

“I did what I needed to. We were at war. You can’t complain _Prussia,_ ” he spat, “You fought with me, you fought against him. You helped me. You let this happen.”

 

“And I shouldn’t have! Francis needs him, Arthur, he needs Mattieu to –“

 

“Matthew.”

 

“What?”

 

“His name is Matthew. Good night,” Arthur shut the door in his face, ignoring the thumping on the door until it stopped. He then lent back, eyes closed, wondering how this mess all happened, and when he’d become such a horrible person.

He could only think about what would happen if France had done that to him, if France had taken Alfred.

 

He couldn’t bear the thought.

 

Maybe he should let France see Matthew. May-

 

“Arthur?”

 

The sleep deprived voice of the young child at the top of the stairs brought him out of his reflections. Matthew stood there, rubbing his eyes wearily, holding his peculiar bear cub.

 

“Was it Papa? Did Papa finally come for me!?” His voice rose in excitement, and he ran down the steps, any semblance of sleep forgotten.

 

Arthur scooped the child into his arms, tightening his grip slightly to stop the wriggling.

 

“It was no one, love, no one at all.”

 

The disappointment Matthew felt was tangible as he slumped against the older man’s shoulder.

  
“Oh.”


	5. Chapter 5

“What do you want Prussia?”

 

Gilbert winced slightly at the acid in his old friend’s tone as he ran into the room, but he still let a smile form on his face. His feet tangled up with each other, causing him to stagger but he grabbed a handful of France’s coat and steadied himself, panting.

 

“America.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“America is fighting old eyebrows for his independence!”

 

Francis stiffened, hands holding onto Gil’s arms as he registered what he had just been told. But he bit his lips and pulled himself away, looking away.  


“He can’t do it. What hope does an infantile nation have against that bastard.”

 

“None,” Prussia straightened his shirt, staring at the man in front of him. “If he were to fight alone.”

 

“Are you say-“

 

“I’m saying we should help start a revolution.”

 

{~}

 

The boy had grown since he’d last seen him. The soft cheeks of youth had vanished, now sharp bones stuck out of his face as he grinned at the older nations. His expression seemed relaxed yet his muscles were tense and Prussia had an eye on the knife at his belt. His hands kept brushing the hilt, almost like he was trying to show he was willing to fight. Gil liked this kid.

 

“So what brings you to the States, boys?”

 

“Well, America we hea-“

“We want to help you gain your independence,” Francis cut across Gil, eyes dark as he took in the inn that they were currently sitting in. It was dirty, and the silver haired man had to hope that the rest of the men of the American army were not in this state; half-drunk, half out cold on the tables. “And it looks like you need it.”

 

“We’d do fine without your help,” Alfred gritted his teeth and shrugged. “But I guess any help is appreciated. Are you both going to or…?”

 

“Both Francis and France pledge their support to your cause mon ami.”

 

The blond nodded before turning to Gilbert. “And you?”

 

“Just Gilbert I’m afraid, but I’m sure I can get a few men over here.”

 

The youngest member of the trio finally let the tension fall out of his shoulders and wrapped his arms around his fellows. He smiled at them before pulling them into the centre of the room.

 

“Two beers for the newest members of the revolution!”

 

The entire room broke out into cheers.

 

{~}

 

Francis pushed his way through the crowd in the inn, trying to find his new ally as Gilbert trailed behind him. It was in the early hours of the morning and they were celebrating one of the last few days before the fight would begin. They were planning a revolt in Boston. Arthur had no idea what was coming.

 

“Alfred,” Francis’s voice broke him out of his stupor and he focused back in on the situation at hand. “Alfred, is Mattieu joining us this evening?”

 

Shit.

 

“Mattieu? Franny, d’you mean Matthew? Matthew, you know, the guy who looks like me, but speaks French? You should know him. Right?” Alfred questioned, turning away from the card game he was watching. He tilted his head slightly. “I mean, I would have thought you’d remember your own colonies name. I mean ex-colony. It’s been a while I guess. You may have forgotten him…”

 

Gilbert just stared at Francis, ignoring the still speaking Alfred as he saw the emotion drain from the blonde’s face. He sighed, moving his gaze to the floor for a moment before covering Alfred’s mouth with his hand.

 

“Hey! What- Is he okay?” Could be vaguely made out from the young man but still no one payed him any attention.

 

“Matthew…” Francis whispered, brow furrowed. “Arthur changed his name. Arthur took him away from me and changed his name. What else could he have taken from my poor Mattieu…”

“But we can help now. We’ll fight for his freedom to. He can come back to me. We can be a family again. Alfred when is mon cher coming? When will he get here? When will my Mattieu be here?” The French man almost staggered forward, almost like he was being dragged to the ground, and took Alfred’s hands in his.

 

Gilbert removed his hand, hoping Mattieu would get here soon. He knew the pair hadn’t seen each other since that awful incident in the bedroom and he knew just how much Francis missed his son. He was sure Mattieu would be coming as soon as he could, desperate to get away from that controlling bastard.

 

Alfred’s words made him go cold.

 

“He’s not coming. He’s fighting on Arthur’s side.”


	6. Chapter 6

“He’s what?”

 

Francis’s voice cut across the loud noise of the tavern, blue eyes cold. The boy who had looked so much like his son just stared back, grimacing. He wondered if this was what his Mattieu looked like now, all sharp angles and an air of tiredness behind young eyes.

 

“He’s fighting with Arthur. I asked him that was one of the things I made sure to do Francis,” the boy’s was quiet, almost as though he was trying to assure himself of something. All Prussia could think was that for a boy who wanted to start revolution he was rather tied up with his past and emotions. Yet, for such a young nation, this was natural, something to be encouraged, he supposed. 

 

France’s fist slammed onto the table nearby, knocking the mugs of stale liquid onto the floor in his anger. Yet soon the fury in his form faded away, leaving only a father without a child, one who had desperately clung onto the hope that Mattieu was still his. Arthur had finally managed to break him by mangling Mattieu up so much that he become his damned toy soldier.

 

Cruel, yes, but very effective.

 

Gilbert rested a hand on his oldest friend’s shoulder, trying to ignore the shudders that racked the suddenly frail body, as he tried to disentangle the image of the tiny boy and the bird with the idea of the man he’d have to shoot.

(~)

 

He’d grown.

That was all Gilbert could think as he stared at the man across the battlefield. It should be Francis getting the first sighting of this lost child, yet he was, locking eyes with Mattieu. The small waif he remembered was now a man, with few traces of the child left. His hair still curled at the ends though. The albino couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like to run his hands through it. Would it still feel as soft as it once had, or would it be different, just like the figure opposite him?

 

~

 

Matthew tensed his shoulders when he saw the Prussian staring at him. It had been so long since he’d seen those red eyes, the last memory of them in that room he tried to forget about. His men shouted around him and he turned his back on the man he had idolised.

 

“On the count! For the Empire and God save the King!” He shouted, arm raised, giving the signal for the attack to begin. He had to do this for Arthur.

 

He ran alongside his men. They ran through the muck of the field, already trodden with footprints and bodies. This was the second day of this battle. He planned to end it here, not wanting to draw out this slaughter.  The American troops responded, men with fear in their eyes running at their mirror images. Two armies, the difference being ideals and the colours of their uniforms.

 

Matthew gulped back his fear. He hadn’t had much experience with this, didn’t know what to expect. Yet it was better than a month ago. A month ago, when his closest mortal friend died slowly with an infected bullet wound. Matthew had held his hand, listened to his last prayers and promised to give the wedding ring to his wife. Alfred had been at that fight.

 

It had seemed like he was aiming for Matthew.

 

He shook his head, unfortunately returning to the situation just as his bayonet impaled the man in front of him. Forcing back his gag reflex, he kept running, eyes locked in front of him. Matthew wasn’t even thinking about what he saw.

 

He hated war.

 

~

 

Why was he fighting for Arthur? What had that bastard done to deserve the love that amazing boy?

 

~

 

He had to fight for Arthur. He couldn’t let Alfred leave them.

 

~

 

He had nothing to lose yet everything to gain. He come home again, back to France and Gilbert. Gilbert could feel at home again.

 

~

 

If Alfred left, he lost everything. He knew Arthur had just wanted to spite Francis, to show off his power, when he took him away from the only home he knew. And he knew that Arthur regretted it. He knew it every time Arthur looked at him. Yet England had let him into his home, and Matthew loved him for it.

 

He knew if Alfred left, his older brother would be torn apart.

 

~

The men caught glimpses of each other: Francis would see this strange, distorted version of his son and forget his aim; Alfred would turn his back on his brother, not wanting to see what he was willing to do; and Gilbert would just stare.

 

The slight contact with his son was not helping Francis, yet the days when they managed to land a few shots on Arthur, Francis would drink freely, a smile on his face and joy in his arms.

 

 It was only in the early hours did Gil hear him crying about the past and ‘little Angleterre’.

 

~

 

They’d lost.

 

He had seen the showdown between his brothers, how Arthur had fallen into the muck when he could have won as America left him. Matthew couldn’t help but wonder if the same mercy would have been shown if it was him in Alfred’s space.

 

-

 

 

Francis made to take a step forward but faltered, looking torn. His eyes were filled with tears, a slight smile on his face that slowly fell. The light blue of his coat was dirty, stained with mud and blood. Matthew couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was of his own people. The thought made him vaguely sick.

 

“Mattieu…?”

 

“Matthew. My name is Matthew.”

 

Francis gasped quietly, eye widening before he turned and left, the once elegant step now barely containing his sorrow. Arthur soon followed suit, leaving a lingering glance on the

 

Matthew turned to Gilbert.

 

“I hope you’re happy.”

 

~

 

He wasn’t.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“You helped me fight him!” Alfred yelled at the Prussian, throwing his hands in the air as he glared. The argument had started a few minutes ago when Gilbert had stormed into his room (Alfred refused to wonder how he had gotten in) and punched him, shouting about Matthew. He had no idea why the European was so concerned with how he was treating his brother.

 

“That doesn’t mean you can set his capital on fire!”

 

So he’d about that. Damn.

 

“Look, it was two years ago. He’s moved on, I’ve moved on, you need to move on, okay?” He tried, rubbing his cheek and sitting down on his bed. He’d have a nasty bruise; for an old man that Prussian could pack a punch.

 

It was early in the afternoon, the August heat sending a haze over the horizons. On days like this, all Alfred wanted to do was drink sweet tea and relax. He’d made sure to finish his paperwork, and anything else he had been sure Madison could deal with. Of course, Gilbert had to choose today to come and harass him.

 

“You burned his fucking capital city, you brat!”

 

This was going to be a long day.

 

~

 

Matthew sat with Arthur, wincing as the bandages on his chest tightened as he breathed. Even two years on the wound still bled. Even two years on, Matthew couldn’t believe his own brother would burn York. It had been rebuilt slowly, and the people were recovering but the Canadian couldn’t understand why Alfred had been willing to burn his brother in order to gain England’s attention.

 

It wasn’t that surprising, he supposed.

 

“Ready for tonight, lad?”

 

Matthew nodded.

 

~

 

“Prussia just shut the-“

 

~

 

The battle had been hard won, but the British and Canadian troops had won, their forces pushing forward until they held Washington, and then the White House. It was abandoned, the foyers vacant and a large picture frame empty. The Americans had taken what they could and ran, using the previous battles as a warning. Matthew had made sure that they had a warning, yet he expected Alfred to be here, waiting for them.

 

With or without his brother, he supposed, they still had a mission. It was then, with a heavy heart, he called out for the first fire to be lit in the White House.

 

~

 

Alfred screamed, his hands clutching at his chest as the noise tore out of his throat. Gilbert stepped back, eyes wide. The boy had just started screaming, out of nowhere, and the familiar sent of burning flesh filled the room.

 

Oh God, he wouldn’t.

 

Matthew wouldn’t.

 

The Prussian shook his head before guiding Alfred to his bed, quietly shushing him as the American just continued to shriek. Fingers tore at the white shirt he wore, ripping the fine fabric away to reveal the small burn mark that was gradually getting larger over his chest.

 

“Washington! They’re- they’re burning her!”

 

Gilbert grimaced, and held the boy’s arms down to prevent him from doing any more damage to himself.

 

~

 

The storm soon put the fires out, the flames dying in the torrential rain. Arthur had demanded a retreat after the wind had thrown two cannons streets away. They had heard the screams over the gusts. There was not that much damage, Alfred could repair it quickly.

 

Matthew wondered if Alfred finally understood how much it hurt for your heart to be burned.

 

He just hoped he hadn’t been alone, like the Canadian had been two years ago, his screams muffled by the snow under his face.

 

~

 

Alfred had fallen into a deep sleep a few hours ago, as Prussia climbed into his carriage to return to the docks. The blond had lost his voice after so much shouting, only able to silently cry until the damage had stopped.

 

Prussia slumped against the cushioned back of his carriage seat, tired to his bones.

 

“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Matthew,” he muttered, before closing his eyes and drifting off to his own fitful sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

“I bet you’re happy now, frog,” Arthur growled, head in hands on the bar the three men sat at. Francis, a glass of the finest wine in this _fine_ establishment in his hand, just raised an eyebrow at his (current) friend.

“What on earth are you talking about, Angleterre?”

“Matthew, what else you twat?”

The difference in the postures was noticeable immediately, both Francis and Gilbert stiffening as they took in the sight of the drunk man before them. He was literally drowning his sorrows, blond hair dishevelled and dark circles under his eyes. He was a wreck. The pair couldn’t help but feel some glee at the sight but they pushed it down with concern for the boy.

“Matthew?”

They both had a feeling what Arthur would say next.

“He’s independent. He- _We_ signed the papers this morning,” the Brit buried his head into his arms, shaking slightly. “He was so happy. God he was so happy. So fucking happy to be rid of me.”

Gilbert could see Francis smiling, a light of hope sparking up in his eyes. His son was finally free. He stood, the stool he sat on clattering to the ground. All eyes in the bar turned to the trio. Not that they cared.

“Mon Mattieu…”

With that, Francis left, his blue cape flying behind. Gilbert rubbed his hand over the fine tweed jacket of the miserable man. It had been a while since he had seen him in a state like this.

“Just leave. I know you want to.”

“Art-“

“Everyone does. They all do.”

“I kno-“

“Fuck off.”

And so Gilbert did.


	9. Chapter 9

“We’ve got them stuck in Vimy.”

 

Gilbert turned to his brother, stretching out the muscles in his shoulders. It had been a long day, with battle plans, Austria, Hungary, and he had found an old photo of himself, Toni and Francis. It hadn’t been taken more than a few decades ago but God, they would never smile like that again. He had just started to rebuild his relationship with France after the Waterloo incident and then this had to fucking happen. It had been 3 years since the War had started. So much for being finished by Christmas.

 

“Good. I want this to be over.”

 

-

  
“Are you fucking kidding me!?”

 

Matthew was glaring at him from across the battlefield.

 

“Bruder?”

 

“He’s going to get himself killed! Luddie! Why is he even here? This isn’t his fight,” Prussia paced around the small trench, head down to avoid the stare. Why was he here? He wasn’t European, he was independent of both France and England. “I mean he isn’t even 50 years into his independence!”

 

“Gil-“

 

“Why would Francis let him into this?! What happened to ‘ohonhonhin mon petite Mattieu’?! He is going to-“

 

“GILBERT!”

 

“Ludwig if you cannot tell the awesome me is in the middle of a breakdown- wait is that?”

 

“Ja.”

 

“Well shit.”

 

Matthew’s divisions were shooting at the German trench.

 

“I think we should d-“

 

Ludwig just grabbed him by the lapels, pulling him back and down as the sound of screams echoed around them. The shelling continued for a while, the brothers crouched together, feeling the vibrations running through the ground. The enemy deserter hadn’t mentioned this. How many of his men were dead?

 

The shelling cut off. The men started to relax, their shoulders falling as shouts filled the air for stretchers.

 

It was then they found out that the Canadians had laid mines. Which all went off at once.

 

-

 

Matthew was behind a tank, following it’s slow pace as it drove over the remaining barbed wire. It was still early in the morning, not even 7am but he was ready. This was his most important battle. He had to prove himself here. He had to show Arthur and Francis he was strong, if he could do this they would have to believe him. Neither of them had been able to capture this German line, but he would.

 

Arthur was behind him, some ways back, with the British division but it was Canada leading the attack. He hadn’t known Prussia would be there but he supposed it was going to happen at some point. Matthew was still angry about 1812. He knew it was petty but it hurt. It hurt that Gilbert went to his brother, _again_ , proving that Alfred was just that much better than him.

 

But Alfred wasn’t here right now (thank God), and he was, so he had to focus.

 

-

 

It took 4 days. 4 days of crawling through the mud and killing for them to take the ridge. Gilbert didn’t even stay to the end, leaving with his brother 2 days in. But it had been worth it. The smile on Arthur’s face when he patted Matthew’s shoulder with a ‘Good job lad’.

 

That’s what he told himself.


	10. Chapter 10

“Matthew?”

 

Gilbert had dived into an old cottage, just missing being shot. It had hurt his shoulder but he figured it was better to have a bruised a shoulder than a hole in his chest. It turned out that the younger nation had disagreed.

 

He was propped up against one the walls, pressing a hand to the red stain on his uniform. The sound of artillery faded away, the only thing registering with Gil was the fact that the kid he had sworn to protect was bleeding out in front of him.

 

“Of course. Of the entire allied side, you had to be the one to find me.” Matthew muttered, trying to push himself up more. He whimpered as he did so, the sound spurring the albino into action.

 

He fell to his knees next to the boy, carefully removing the sticky hand from its place to study the small hole.

 

“Sorry about this Birdie,” he pulled him forward, ignoring the sharp intake of breath as he searched for an exit wound. There wasn’t one. He swore.

 

“You called me Birdie.”

 

“What? Yeah, got a problem with it?”

 

Matthew just laughed quietly.

 

“No, no, just…Europe’s stupid.”

 

“Ja, we’re all stupid,” he smiled, remembering when Matthew went by Mattieu and was as tall as his thighs. “But I think you’re stupid to for agreeing to fight with us.”

  
“I think it’s contagious.”

 

“Fuck you, Birdie.”

 

“You wish.”

 

 

 

“Well this is awkward.”

 

“Sorry I’m not much for conversation. I have a hole in my chest. What’s your excuse?”

 

“The awesome me is trying to fix said hole.”

 

“Oh, how’s- how’s it going?” His breathing was getting shallow.

 

A shell went off a few buildings away, dust falling from the roof and onto the pair. Shouts filled the streets and a woman’s screams were cut off before they could truly be heard.

 

“It’d be going better if you took your shirt off.”

 

“Dinner…first.”

 

“You are definitely Francis’s son.” Prussia muttered as he undid the buttons going down Matthew’s chest. They were stiff, and Gil’s fingers were cold but he managed to take the shirt off and gasp.

 

“Like what you see?” Matthew gasped, his face almost as pale as the albino’s as he let his head fall backwards and eyes close.

-

 

Matthew woke up on an uncomfortable mattress with enough bandages wrapped around his chest for an entire division. His face hurt, and he could feel swelling around his eye. The last thing he could remember was Gilbert tending to his wound, and then he must have passed out.

 

“Hey bro.”

-

  
Alfred stared down at his younger brother, squeezing his hand, smiling. It had been three days since he’d helped Artie and Francis raid the POW camp where they found him. He’d been half delirious, muttering about birds and bears, only start repeating the name ‘Gilbert’ again and again.

 

“Where am I?”

 

“Hospital, well the closest we could get. Do, do you know what year it is?”

 

“It’s December right? December 1917?”

 

“It’s November, Mattie. November 1918. You’ve been in a prisoner of war camp for nearly a year.”


	11. Chapter 11

Gilbert groaned as he sat in the trench, the muck coating his trousers and even reaching his shirt. It was a far cry from the previous wars where he’d sat on an awesome war horse, Prussian blue uniform standing out like a beacon of just how awesome he was. This, on the other hand, was hell. The uniform was rough, lacking any grandeur, just simple green. It was so unawesome.

 

Francis was on the other side of the war, being torn apart by Ludwig. It was insane. That was it, the world had gone mad for this to be happening again. Last time he’d thought it was the worst, he’d thought, like the rest of the god-damned world, that it would be the war to end all wars. That was a laughable thought now. The interim had fucking sucked too, money almost worthless, Ludwig in pain from the god-damn debts and the state of his people, himself fading away into history. He could barely call himself a country anymore. He was just a part of Germany, just a god damn state that would be forgotten.

 

It scared him to think his last memories could be in this trench.

 

What was even doing here? He should be back in Germany, planning, trying to save his-no Ludwig’s people. Yet he here was, in a trench, waiting for the signal so he could tell the poor saps with him to run at the other side. He hadn’t seen another country in what felt like years. Where was Arthur, Francis even Ivan? Tucked away, not seeing this hell. They felt it. He felt it. But they couldn’t see it.

 

It made him sick.

 

The whistle blew.

 

He stood.

 

It blew again.

 

He shouted.

 

It blew one more time.

 

He pulled himself over the top.

 

 

Matthew was tired of this war, tired of telling Al he was okay when all he wanted to do was cry, was tired of having to go back to Europe and see his men blown to bits, drown in their own blood, die.

 

But he couldn’t give up. Francis was relying on him, weak and in so much pain it hurt Matthew to look. Arthur was relying on him, those thick brows almost constantly furrowed, expecting another bomb any second. He had to tell Alfie he was fine. There was no way in hell Matthew was letting his brother anywhere near this place.

 

He was waiting to give the order for his men to go over the top. He was dreading it. He was wondering whose family he would write to tonight.

 

The blond gritted his teeth before calling out the command.

 

He pulled himself over the top.

 

It was madness. Utter madness. Men fell everywhere, red flowers blooming on chests, arms, faces.  Shouts and shells filled the air. The ground was soft, soldiers being swallowed by the mud as they died. Both sides were being ripped apart.  
It wasn’t the worst thing Matthew had seen that week. It wasn’t even the worst battle he’d seen in the past week. It was a near everyday occurrence now, the cycle of war. It scared him sometimes, how accustomed he had become to it.

 

A bullet flying past his ear bought him back to reality. A scream died in the throat of the man behind him, signalling the bullet had found a target. He grimaced.

 

War was hell.

 

But Matthew figured he’d rather fight through hell than let it spread.

 

 

Gil saw him first. Saw a flash of blond and violet and knew who was there. He knew that Matthew, his tiny Birdie was in the war. Again. He’d seen what the kid could do, what he’d done to West but, dear God, it hurt to see him here. He was meant to be tiny. He was meant to be safe. He wasn’t meant to be here.

 

But then again, who was?

 

It wasn’t like the boy didn’t know what a monster Gil was but he didn’t want to have to shoot him. To shoot the tiny boy who’d once run to him, quietly asking to pet his bird. He still remembered 1776. He was sure Francis did to.

 

His name bought him back to reality.

 

And then so did a punch to the face.

 

He hadn’t realised he’d stopped. He hadn’t seen Matthew running at him.

 

He’d felt the punch though. And felt that he deserved it.

 

The bastard staggered, hand going to his jaw as he looked dazedly into Matthew’s eyes. He had the gall to stop and his men go on ahead. He had the fucking gall to let his men die for him when he had started this fucking war, him and his brother. Matthew couldn’t believe it. (He could. He just didn’t want to).

 

“Fuck you Prussia.”

It was cold on his tongue as he spat the words at the older man, glaring. A shell fell nearby but he ignored it, though the impact sent vibrations running through his core.

 

“Ni-nice to see you to Birdie,” the albino muttered, stull rubbing his face.

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“I can call you whatever the hell I like.”

 

“I guess I won’t call you Prussia anymore then.”

 

Gil had to stop himself wincing at the jab. But once the pain had passed, the anger took over. So he did what was expected of him.

He shot.

  
  
The bullet went straight through Matthew’s chest, those beautiful violet eyes opening just a little bit more before tightening in pain as air tried to get to his lungs.  It felt as if it were his chest with the bullet in, his lungs failing, because of the sight of Matthew, fucking Birdie, beginning to drown in his own blood.

 

“Gil,” he tried to speak.

 

Matthew’s knees gave way, hitting the mud and sinking in, his face following a few moments later. Gilbert took a step back, and then another and he turned and ran. Matthew’s voice a constantly replaying as he did so.

 

Matthew’s body was dragged back to the trench by his fellow soldiers after the battle, he was told. The only thing he remembered was Prussia’s face after the shot. France had held him and cried, England swearing to gut ‘that bloody git’. Both father figures were weak and worn themselves, so much so it hurt him, far more than the tightly bound hole in his chest. Alfred didn’t know he was here, none of them wanted him involved in this mess. None of them had much choice in the matter though.

 

Matthew soon fell asleep again, Arthur soon stormed out of the room, swearing, again. And Francis just stared at his son, remembering those days when he thought he could trust Gilbert with the most precious thing in his world.


	12. Chapter 12

The wall had fallen. That was all that was going through Gilbert’s mind. He stood atop it, grinning like the awesome man he was at the growing hole in the concrete that had been the bane of existence (discounting Russia, of course) for the past few decades. It had been a few years since he’d seen anyone from the other side, although there had been some interesting experiences. Especially the ‘Friendship Games’, which had been an experience. But now he was watching the Berlin Wall fall.

 

He would be able to see Ludwig again! Mein Gott, it had been years. At least he knew he was okay, from the letters that somehow made it over. Gilbert supposed that Matthew hadn’t wanted him to know he was the one sorting the letters out but Ludwig had mentioned receiving help from a ‘Birdie’. It was surprising, in all honesty, that Matthew was so willing to help him after their last meeting, but that was Birdie. Perfect.

 

“Bruder!?”

 

West’s smile as he looked up at him pushed every thought from his mind.

 

*

 

Ludwig was asleep, his head resting on Prussia’s shoulder, when Matthew walked into the living room. He was paler than Gil remembered, with tired eyes but that shy smile he had when they first met. Gil grinned at him, raising a finger to lips before gently moving West.

 

Mattie rubbed his arm sheepishly, following the albino as he left. It had been years since he had properly seen Gilbert, only catching glances when he would visit Ivan or Kat, and he was relieved to see he really was fine. Well, he was underweight, but that was far better than what he’d heard.

 

The wall had gone down a few hours ago and Mattie had caught the next plane to Germany, both terrified and excited. Alfred had been celebrating the damage to the ‘Commie’s’ power, not noticing Matthew leaving. Both American nations knew that the Soviet Union would fall soon, yet Matthew wasn’t worried about that. At least not yet.

 

A small cough brought him out of his thoughts, and he took a deep breath, avoiding red eyes by looking at the floor of the dark of the hallway. Gilbert would probably kick him out, God knows he deserves it, but part of him still hoped. So he took that hope, and said the only thing he could think of.

 

“Hi.”

 

It was tense for a few moments, with Matthew braving to meet the steady gaze, before Gil wrapped his arms around the younger nation, tears falling down his cheeks.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The Canadian staggered backwards, eyes wide as the silverette buried his face in his neck.

 

“What? W-what for?”

 

“For the letters. Did you seriously think the awesome me wouldn’t figure it out? Luddie said ‘Birdie’ had helped him.”

 

“I- oh. I’m sorry.”

 

“What for?”

 

“What I said last time we met…”

 

“I shot you,” Gilbert muttered, laughing quietly. “We’re even. You’re awesome. More awesome than me. You are the most awesome person in this world.”

 

“Are- Are you okay?”

 

“Tired. Tired and sleepy and awesome and you can’t leave until I say so.” He was slumping against Matthew, yawning and having problems staying awake.

 

“Okay…”

 

Gilbert fell asleep.

 

*

 

“He’s perfect West. I just, he’s perfect.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Canada. Matthew. Birdie.”

 

“ _Who?_ ”

 

Prussia turned to glare at his younger brother, the comradery from just after the falling of the wall gone. It had been 5 years with Gilbert and Matthew growing closer and closer. And Gilbert had just realised another way Matthew had saved him.

 

“Canada, the nation above America- no that is not just more America. He- after the war he took them in West.”

 

“He took who in?”

 

“My people.”

 

Gil stared up at the ceiling, an awesome (stupid) smile on his face as he stretched himself out. Alfred had mentioned it the other day while Mattie was grabbing some beers.

 

Canada had a Prussian population. Those who had fled during the war, or before Ivan got his claws on the land, had been welcomed to Canada. They were safe. They remembered him. And it was all because of his Birdie.

 

“Holy shit, I think I’m in love.”

 

 

 

“What?”


	13. Chapter 13

Gilbert was over the moon. Wait, no over the sun, out of the galaxy, his awesomeness could not be contained right now. His Birdie had asked if he wanted to go out. His Birdie had been the one to ask! (The Prussian had decided to ignore the fact that it was completely platonic for now).

 

They were going to an ice hockey game, and Gil had no idea what this entailed but the look on Matthew’s face when he asked made it completely worth it. He thought it was cute, even if it reminded him of jolly hockey sticks Arthur but he had raised him so that could be understood.

 

It would be a nice day out.

 

*

 

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU FUCKING THINK YOU’RE FUCKING DOING YOU FUCKING IDIOT!?”

 

Gilbert was shrunk back in his seat, eyes wide, as Matthew stood on the plastic chair shouting his lungs off. 

  
“THAT MOVE WAS TOTALLY ILLEGAL YOU HOSER!”

 

This was not what he expected.

 

“FUCK YEAH!”

 

And that guy’s nose just got broken.

 

Great.

 

“DID YOU SEE THAT GIL!?”

  
*

 

“Did you enjoy the game, Gilbert?”

 

Matthew was back to normal, his shoulders falling back into their typical slouch and his voice fading away. The car park was packed and full of noise, so much so that Gil had to lean in to hear his friend.

 

“The fuck was that?”

 

“Hockey?”

 

Gilbert stared at the man next to him, having to tilt his head up slightly to be able to see into his eyes even when he slouched. He couldn’t help but fall in love more, the young nation was so many things wrapped up in one, so much so that it shouldn’t work, but it did.

 

He was English and French, yet so Canadian Prussia was surprised he didn’t cry syrup. He was quiet yet so loud he could be heard over thousands of people. He was confident yet shy; handsome yet beautiful; the child who loved his stories and the man who wasn’t afraid to fight.

 

He was Mattieu and Matthew; he was Birdie.

 

“You’re perfect, you know that right?”

 

“Eh?!”

 

“Exactly. I’m still awesome, though.”

 

****

A few years later, Gilbert woke up with Matthew curled up against his side, long hair tickling his chest as he breathed. He never thought this was what would come from that first meeting with the tiny boy with the too big lilac eyes.

 

The Prussian lent in, letting his warm breath caress his lover’s ear.

 

“You’re perfect, you know that right?”

 

Matthew just groaned, rolling over and burying himself in the blankets, giving Gil a lovely view of his back. The albino stared at the man next to him, a small smile on his face, before placing his cold feet on said back.

 

“FUCK YOU!”

 

Gil’s laughter echoed around the house, even as he was being smothered by a pillow.

*

“You are an ass.”

 

“A damn fine ass, if you ask me.”

 

Matthew glared at his boyfriend across the dinner table, trying not to smile at that ridiculous grin that Gilbert had whenever he spoke about himself. Or Matthew.

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

“But you love me.”

 

“I do.” Matthew sighed, reaching out to hold the pale hand opposite him.

 

They both still in just their underwear, neither one bothering to get dressed before they began their quest for food. Gilbert greatly approved of this choice, which was made clear by the way his eyes raked over Matt’s bare chest, grinning as he saw the faint bruises on his neck. They looked like stars, the patterns spreading along his throat and collar bones, and Gil remembered each noise Matthew had made when those stars had been born.

 

Maybe there should be some more stars.

 

The Prussian stood, still smiling, and walked around to Matthew. He kissed him gently, tasting maple syrup, and ran his fingers through his hair.

 

“My pancakes…”

 

“Can wait.”

 

Matthew sighed but returned the kiss, gripping taut muscles, and moaned slightly as a certain curl got pulled. Gilbert straddled his lap, leaning in even closer, letting himself fall into the exchange. He soon pulled away, dotting kisses down Matt’s pale jawline, and added a star to his chest, loving how warm hands dug that much harder into his naked back.

 

“Gilbert, what do you think you are doing to mon petit Mattieu?”


End file.
